“You betrayed me!” Passeau said without preamble. “You launched your rocket without permission. You did it behind my back!”
Dan realized the FAA administrator was speaking for the guys behind him. He smiled pleasantly as he got to his feet.
“I didn’t need your permission, Mr. Passeau,” Dan said. “I have all the permissions that are required for a launch, all signed on the dotted line by the various local, state, and federal agencies involved.”
Passeau pointed a finger at him. “But you’ll need FAA approval for landing that aircraft.”
“And you won’t get it,” said Tweedledum, on Passeau’s left.
“You’re in deep trouble, Mr. Randolph,” said Tweedledee.
Raising his hands placatingly, Dan said, “Gentlemen, you’re assuming that the plane is coming down in U.S. airspace.”
All three men stared at him.
“It’s not.”
“It’s not? How can you—”
Stepping around his desk, Dan said, “Come with me, boys. I was just going over to the blockhouse to watch the landing from there.”
Lynn Van Buren was thinking, We’re coming up to the point in the reentry trajectory where the 01 vehicle failed. If we’re going to have a problem, it’ll be in the next few minutes.
“Reentry sequence initiated,” called one of her team, sitting in the seat across the aisle from her.
Van Buren realized she was sweating in the plane’s cramped cabin, even though the air conditioning was turned up full blast. It was a cloudy morning outside; tropical thunderheads were already building up over the mountains that blocked their view of the sea.
Good thing we’re bringing her in now, Van Buren said to herself. Another hour or so and we’ll have thunderstorms drenching the area.
“Reentry initiated.”
She saw the readings for the temperature sensors on the plane’s nose, underbelly, and the leading edges of the wings begin to climb steeply. The rising curves were all well under the red curve that marked maximum allowable temperature, though. So far so good, she thought
“Pitch-up maneuver in ten seconds.”
This is it, Van Buren told herself, her pulse quickening. This is where 01 failed.
“Confirm pitch-up maneuver.”
On Van Buren’s laptop screen the little icon representing the plane was smack on the curve that displayed the nominal reentry trajectory. No problems, she saw. Then she silently added. So far.
“Max heating.”
“Max aerodynamic stress.”
She held her breath. The plane was on automatic, guided entirely by its onboard computer. Van Buren knew she could override the onboard system if she had to, but she dearly wanted to avoid that. Let the bird come in on its own, she repeated over and over, like a mantra.
Something flashed. Van Buren winced and glanced out the plane’s window. A deep roll of thunder grumbled out there. No! she screamed silently. Hold off! Let me bring the bird back to the ground first!
“Initiating bleed-off turns,” said the woman in the seat in front of her. The spaceplane was starting a series of three wide turns to slow itself down enough for the landing.
“Mach eight and dropping.”
“Turn one completed.”
The Mach numbers were spiraling down. The worst is over, Van Buren thought as she stared at her screen. She’s through reentry. No problems.
“Turn two completed.”
Another flash of lightning. “Dammit, hold off!” Van Buren grumbled in a whisper. More thunder.
“Turn three completed.”
A louder, sharper crack.
“That wasn’t thunder,” somebody sang out Sonic boom, Van Buren knew.
“Can you see her?”
They had mounted a camera atop the Citation’s fuselage and slaved it to the airport’s radar. Van Buren clicked on the camera view.
“There she is!” she shouted. The plane was racing across the clouds, a double vapor trail streaking off its wing tips.
“Come on home, baby,” someone said in a fervent prayer.
“Landing gear down.”
“Speed two-ten… two-oh-two… one-ninety-six…”
Van Buren shoved her laptop under the chair in front of her, jumped to her feet, and rushed to the plane’s hatch. It was slightly ajar. She pushed it all the way open and raced down the metal steps, ducked beneath the Citation’s wing just in time to see the sleek silvery spaceplane touch its wheels to the runway with a screech and a puff of rubber.
The rest of the team piled out of the Citation as the spaceplane rolled to a stop well short of the end of the runway.
“Yahoo!” This time the cheer was heartfelt.
Rain began to spatter down. Big fat drops splashed all over them. The Venezuelan soldiers around the perimeter of their area stood in amazement as they watched this gang of loco gringos dancing in the downpour.
Len Kinsky’s Apartment
After Kinsky’s explosive flare-up with Dan, and her brief telephone conversation with Kelly Eamons, April had gone through the motions of work while her mind raced. Len couldn’t have had anything to do with killing Joe Tenny or Pete Larsen. He just couldn’t. But Kelly thinks he’s involved in one way or another. And if he leaves the company, goes back to New York or someplace else, we won’t be able to find out what he knows about all this.
After more than an hour of such worrying she phoned Kinsky’s apartment, only to hear his answering machine’s taped message.
“Len, it’s April. You’re not leaving without saying good-bye to me, are you?”
Kinsky picked up the phone. “April? I’m here.”
“Len, you’re not really leaving, are you?”
“Yeah. I’ve got to.” His voice sounded shaky, nervous.
“Without saying good-bye?”
“I wish I could, babe. But I’ve got to split.”
“Can’t we at least have dinner together before you go?”
“I’m in a big rush, honey.”
Taking a deep breath, April said, “I could get a pizza or something and bring it over to your place.”
A long hesitation. Then Kinsky said, “Can you get here by five o’clock?”
“I’d have to leave the office early.” She knew Dan would be upset; there was always so much for her to do, but Dan’s attention was riveted on the spaceplane’s flight test. He probably won’t even miss me until after the plane’s landed in Venezuela, April told herself.
“Don’t tell Dan you’re coming over to see me,” Kinsky said, halfway between pleading and demanding.
“Okay,” said April. “I’ll be there by five. What do you like on your pizza?”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as you’re with it.”
April told Dan she was leaving early; he merely nodded and waved a hand at her, preoccupied with the flight test. As she drove to the ferry she phoned her apartment. No answer. Kelly’s already left, she thought. She was about to try the FBI agent’s cell phone number, when her own phone beeped.
It was Eamons. “Bad news, April. I’ve got to head back to Houston.”
“Back to Houston? When?”
“Right now. I just finished packing my car and telling the motel that I quit.”
“But I’m going to see Len Kinsky,” April said, alarmed. “I’m going to his apartment.”
Without hesitation Eamons said, “Call it off. I don’t want you there without backup.”
April pulled into the parking line for the ferry. This early in the afternoon, hers was the only car there. The ferry was at the pier, its ramp down, empty and waiting for cars. But nobody was in sight, and the chain was up, blocking access to the ramp.
“Kelly, if I don’t get to Len this afternoon, we’ll lose him.”
“He’s going to New York, isn’t he?”